Human Casket and Flower Stitches

How’s National Poetry Month treating everyone? Here’s a couple poems I’ve done so far to kick the month off:

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human casket- made with The Fridge of the Damned magnets! This piece is also over on Michael Arnzen’s Flickr page where he posts the poems made with these deliciously dark magnets (there’s also a link to get your own set!). Check it out.

And here’s one more piece for the day.

Flower Stitches

My heart is dark and dry,
but you water it with love,
pure in its coldness

the drops trickle down
my ribs and grow flowers
inside my lungs

their stems wrap around
my bones and clutch
me together

small green stitches
with black thorns
piercing from my pores

scars that bleed
make me pretty
with the blood of our love

 

Love Me Like A Murder Scene

“From the tantalizing title to its closing line, ‘Love Me Like A Murder Scene’ immediately got my attention and kept it. The poet uses crime scene homicide metaphors with a creepy brilliance that captures the obsessive nature of intense passion. I hope to see more from this writer in the future.” -Karen Petersen

My poem “Love Me Like A Murder Scene” is being featured as the poem of the week at The Five-Two. Check it out here!

15 Famous Authors’ Beautiful Estates

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“Decidedly, I’m a better landscape gardener than a novelist,” Edith Wharton once declared. Indeed, Wharton, whose birthday we celebrate today, was as much a designer and tastemaker during her life as she was a writer. In fact, her first published book, The Decoration of Houses, was a design manual, and so many of her novels glow with beautiful descriptions of design, atmosphere, and costume that could only have come from a knowledgeable hand.

Wharton built her estate, The Mount, in 1902, and if you ask us, its rolling green gardens certainly do her claim justice. So, to celebrate the 150th anniversary of her birth, we’ve collected fifteen gorgeous authors’ homes and estates — though none, perhaps, are as gorgeous as hers. Click through to check out our list, and let us know if we’ve missed any of your own favorite writers’ homes in the comments.

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Happy National Poetry Month!

My photograph of the replica at the Carnegie Museum.

Happy National Poetry Month! This means it’s time for NaPoWriMo! Will you be writing a poem each day this month? I will be challenging myself to write at least two everyday. To kick things off, I wanted to share my first poem of the month with you. The piece below was inspired by the photograph I took at the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh. After doing a little research I discovered the sculpture is a replica cast of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a marble sculpture created in the 2nd century BC of the Greek goddess Nike. The real deal can be found at the Louvre. Needless to say my new goal is to get myself to Paris and see the original sculpture that has inspired me. Check out my poem “Goodbye Halo” below, and happy poetry writing to you!

The beautiful statue on her pedestal in Paris.

The beautiful statue on her pedestal in Paris.

Goodbye Halo

She is not the first angel
to plummet from sky to earth,
to crawl her freezing, broken form
over to the underground fire
he burns at night,

but she is the first
he has fallen in love with.
She is victory,
keeping her sins hidden
between feathered wings
because somewhere between
darkness and a battle above
the clouds, she unraveled
and the light, the sun, the day
all became too much.

Go ahead and fall, angel,
the devil will greet you
and say, “hello pet,
hello my headless snake
who is still my favorite,
who is still my most deadly.”

Fear the light, angel
and dig crosses sharpened
to points into the flesh
of your neck, leave jagged
wounds as you detach
your face, your head,
and say goodbye heaven,
goodbye halo.

Happy World Poetry Day!

To celebrate World Poetry Day, I’ve written a short poem below. In the meantime, check out this great site to read some wonderful “poems on poems.”

Book Skin
by Sara J. Tantlinger

I remember the fable of your veins
and how your bleeding wrists tasted
like a burnt book across my tongue.

We were nameless bodies curved
inside bent pages, keeping love hidden
between an old spine as we inhaled
ink into our hearts like black oxygen.

Spiders scurried across the dust of bones
and left cobwebs inside our eyes, but we
knew addiction would flavor our choice
to crack open skin and read scarlet stories
that swam beneath our underwritten flesh.